


Ache

by cafephan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, poem, tw: implied death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafephan/pseuds/cafephan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt: "The pictures, where the two of them posed, comically, amorously. He felt it in his chest, a yearning, unmistakably."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ache

It wasn’t a dull kind of ache, nor was it one that caused passers-by to look to him in concern.

It was an ache of a man without his lover, his lover of six long years, a man slowly deteriorating from a broken heart.

His cries screamed silence, and the wisps seeped into the apartment, now only housing one, and ebbed into the places they had once kissed.

It hit him when he most expected it, when he curled up into his lover’s side of the bed and sobbed helplessly into the embroidery, but it hit him when he least expected. When he arose from the dining chair, colour-coordinating to his current state, he keeled over onto the floor, screaming out his lover’s name.

His frown gained permanence, his tears gained prominence. To adults he seemed hostile, to children he seemed sad. He hadn’t smiled in weeks, he hadn’t eaten in days. The ache, it grew stronger, whenever he would look to the mantelpiece or the side of the bed. The pictures, where the two of them posed, comically, amorously. He felt it in his chest, a yearning, unmistakably.

He attempted solace in anonymous typography, blogging away his days to whoever would listen, yet nobody seemed to take notice, not like his lover used to. They used to chat away their nights, more recently about their book, their most recent achievement.

Now, he looked back to the mantelpiece, where the book was mounted proudly, squeezed tightly beside the most recent addition.

His tear-filled gaze rested on the porcelain, its pattern almost taunting him. Swirls intertwined, flowers were in full bloom. Mocking him, almost, or so he thought, how a pattern could make him oh so envious, giving its entirety for people to love and admire, sickeningly like its contents.

There was no way of reversing the ache saccharine, no way of making it ease. His heart would throb and swell at the sight, his dishevelled hair and unkempt features stared back from above it.

He spent hours upon hours staring at the urn, bobbing up and down as he sobbed ceaselessly whilst screaming obscenities and whispering his lover’s name desperately.

He often pondered the worst of wonders, wondered if being just another grain of sand in the beach of deceased is such a bad metaphor, would it be an easier, simpler reality. The imagery was enticing, and the ache seemed to praise.

No, the ache would not leave the man, it was all he had left.

The ache was Phil Lester yearning for Dan Howell, the man taken before his time.


End file.
